“Ogden, come and sit down,” said Mrs. Pett.

“Don’t want to sit down.”

“Are you making a long stay in England, Nesta?” asked Mrs. Crocker coldly.

“I don’t know.  We have made no plans.”

“Indeed?”

She broke off.  Ogden, who had possessed himself of a bronze paper-knife, had begun to tap the vase with it.  The ringing note thus produced appeared to please his young mind.

“If Ogden really wishes to break that vase,” said Mrs. Crocker in a detached voice, “let me ring for the butler to bring him a hammer.”

“Ogden!” said Mrs. Pett.

“Oh Gee!  A fellow can’t do a thing!” muttered Ogden, and walked to the window.  He stood looking out into the square, a slight twitching of the ears indicating that he still made progress with the candy.

“Still the same engaging child!” murmured Mrs. Crocker.

“I did not come here to discuss Ogden!” said Mrs. Pett.

Mrs. Crocker raised her eyebrows.  Not even Mrs. Otho Lanners, from whom she had learned the art, could do it more effectively.

“I am still waiting to find out why you did come, Nesta!”

“I came here to talk to you about your step-son, James Crocker.”

The discipline to which Mrs. Crocker had subjected herself in the matter of the display of emotion saved her from the humiliation of showing surprise.  She waved her hand graciously—­in the manner of the Duchess of Axminster, a supreme hand-waver—­to indicate that she was all attention.

“Your step-son, James Crocker,” repeated Mrs. Pett.  “What is it the New York papers call him, Peter?”

Mr. Pett, the human opossum, came to life.  He had contrived to create about himself such a defensive atmosphere of non-existence that now that he re-entered the conversation it was as if a corpse had popped out of its tomb like a jack-in-the-box.

Obeying the voice of authority, he pushed the tombstone to one side and poked his head out of the sepulchre.

“Piccadilly Jim!” he murmured apologetically.

“Piccadilly Jim!” said Mrs. Crocker.  “It is extremely impertinent of them!”

In spite of his misery, a wan smile appeared on Mr. Pett’s death-mask at this remark.

“They should worry about—!”

“Peter!”

Mr. Pett died again, greatly respected.

“Why should the New York papers refer to James at all?” said Mrs. Crocker.

“Explain, Peter!”

Mr. Pett emerged reluctantly from the cerements.  He had supposed that Nesta would do the talking.

“Well, he’s a news-item.”

“Why?”

“Well, here’s a boy that’s been a regular fellow—­raised in America—­done work on a newspaper—­suddenly taken off to England to become a London dude—­mixing with all the dukes, playing pinochle with the King—­naturally they’re interested in him.”

A more agreeable expression came over Mrs. Crocker’s face.